


Care and Feeding

by Mad_Maudlin



Category: Harry Potter - Fandom
Genre: BDSM, Blood Play, CBT, Dark, F/M, Felching, Non-Linear Narrative, Object Penetration, Post-War, dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-23
Updated: 2010-01-23
Packaged: 2017-10-06 14:45:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/54815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mad_Maudlin/pseuds/Mad_Maudlin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>One day he will kill her.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Care and Feeding

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This was begun months ago for the Erotic Elves Fantasy Fest, at [](http://www.livejournal.com/users/gwynlen/profile)[**gwynlen**](http://www.livejournal.com/users/gwynlen/)'s request. She ended up getting a much more polite story because this one freaked me out too much. No, really.
> 
> Everyone should shower eternal praise on [](http://www.livejournal.com/users/tarie/profile)[**tarie**](http://www.livejournal.com/users/tarie/), who bravely ventured to beta this thing. All errors, omissions and really wild things are hereby disclaimed as my own fault. Now, if you need me, I'll be over there poking this this with a ten-foot stick. Er...enjoy.
> 
> **A/N 2:** This fic has been [remixed](http://community.livejournal.com/remix_redux): [Care and Feeding (The Regency Housewife Mix)](http://community.livejournal.com/remix_redux/2943.html?view=70271#t70271) by [](http://www.livejournal.com/users/snoop_doggett/profile)[**snoop_doggett**](http://www.livejournal.com/users/snoop_doggett/).

12.  
She is around him, inside him, all over him, and Ron is drowning. He can only growl and grunt against the thick leather strap that bites into his face, can't help but grind and arch into every brush of her pink-pale breasts on his skin, into every bleeding scratch from her lacquered nails. He hates the creamy thighs splayed across his lap and the cold, wet strings of black hair caressing his face; he hates himself for his desperate squirming and imagines his hands around her blue-veined throat. It's only the restraints that stop him, the coarse rope that shaves off thick layers of skin on his ankles and wrists, that leave him open and exposed and ready for her use. She rocks atop him, tight hot pussy clenching and squeezing and devouring his cock as he writhes, and he hates her more and more every time he plunges deeper. She is everything he despises; she is everything corrupt; she is everything wrong with his world. She is everything, and what is worse, he sort of likes it that way.

 

1.  
He wanted to die when she found him. They had cursed him and beat him and whipped him and a thousand other nameless indignities; memories smudge after enough time without food and water. He knows they left him chained between stout iron stakes in a puddle of his own piss and blood, with legs too broken to take the weight from his arms and a heretic's fork propped under his jaw. They left him to stare into blinding white lights in a sweltering heat and made certain he knew better that to sleep. He nearly died and would've been more than happy to go at the time.

When guards came with clean water instead of curses and soap instead of knives, he allowed them loosen the fork and the gag. When one of them tried to wipe his face, Ron sank his teeth into the man's exposed wrist. The yielding flesh, the squirt of hot blood on his cracked, dry tonguethese mean something, he thinks, these are important, but he doesn't exactly remember why.

 

5.  
"Honestly, Bella, I don't understand what you want with the boy."

"I'm a lonely old widow with needs, Cissy. Surely you can understand that?"

"Well, of coursebut why that one? A blood traitor and an enemy of the Lord.... It hardly seems worth the effort."

"He's pretty enough and he's...well-equipped."

"One could say the same thing about a thousand young men, and yet you've chosen this one."

"I have my reasons. Another scone?"

 

7.  
The first time she used Cruciatus on him, it was genuine shock; he has never been so forgetful since. Some snide bit of backtalk barely out of his mouth (he didn't even remember it later) and then he was in agony: outside of his body, half out of his mind, completely consumed by a bone-deep, razor-edged fire. It lasted till he thought it would shatter his mind, and then a moment longer, and then there was silence so deep he nearly missed her little gasp.

She is a virtuoso at the curse, and there were little lingering throbs in his joins and his nerves, like the aftershocks of an orgasm. He almost wanted to laugh at the comparison until he heard that gasp and opened his eyes and saw her touching herself. She had hitched up her robes and she was fucking her own hand, writhing without shame or restraint. She knelt over his face as she brought herself off, all slick fingers and swollen folds of flesh; she rubbed her juice into his face and chest like she was marking her territory, while he lay frozen, too achey and frightened to move.

"Good boy," she whispered, and left him there on the floor.

 

4.  
"What do you want from me?"

"Nothing important. Nothing you can't give."

"What do you mean?"

Cool fingers stroke his brow. Low melody. "Don't worry your pretty little head about that. And such a pretty head it is...."

"Why not just kill me?"

Laughter, and the touch is on his cheek. "What use would you be to me then?"

"So you want me to...to do something for you?"

"Ooh, and a clever boy, too. Clever little boy."

"I'm not a boy!"

That laughter is so much like broken glass, and the hand that clamps around his throat is like iron. "You are what I say that you are."

Stars dance in his vision.

"You will do as I tell you."

Grey smudges enfold his mind; he's still weak, and if she applied just enough pressure she might kill him.

"Do you understand?"

He discovers he does not want to die.

"Do you understand?"

_Yes,_ say his lips.

And the hand is back to stroking his hair, just like that. "Good boy." A dry kiss on his brow. "My pretty little boy."

 

8.  
At first she mostly wanted him for his mouth; he supposed he made a proper fuck just too much work, and there was a certain amount of pride attached to that. She taught him how she likes it, what to do with his lips and tongue (and on some rare occasions, hands) until he could bring her off quickly and with passable regularity, or at least when she could make him, which wasn't regular at all.

Sometimes he bites her; sometimes her smell and her taste and the soft, soft flesh under his mouth are too much, too tempting, too easy to shred. He bites and she strikes him, hexes himshe took to using a poker for a while, bewitched jut shy of a full red heat, but the only lasting impressions that left were on his back and shoulders, and she does like to care for her toys. The poker hurt, but it was a kind of pain he was used to, especially when it brought him to his knees.

"You are not a stupid boy," she hissed as she cradled his head in her hands, as he gags on the smell of his own burnt flesh. "You bring this on yourself. I've shown you the reward for good behavior..."

He wanted to giggle at her idea of reward, but only until she started giving him one, rough and dry in her cold little hands. He was tied to a bed post, unable to flee or fight back, and beyond the point of wanting to anyway. Punishment wasn't going to change his behavior; it simply meant he'd pushed her hard enough.

 

14.  
She will leave him alone for hours and days in a room without windows or doors. A house-elf will bring his meals and her messages: it never speaks, and Ron has already learned to ignore it. He will pace the rich carpets, crush crystal, tear silk sheets; he will shatter every stick of furniture and smash the bits into tinder. She will take him anyway, clucking about the damage he has done to his hands, and when she sends him back everything will be as it was, intact, unblemished. He will tear it apart again anyway, because it is a way to pass the time.

 

6\.   
She started slow, and he hates her for that, because it allowed him to think that _nothing can possibly be worse than this_ right up until something was. He thought kneeling before her was bad. He thought crawling behind her was worse. By the first time she asked him to touch her he wondered if death wouldn't have been better after all, but by that time he had gotten used to breathing again and the desire to survive is a fierce little flame inside him, bright blue, and it burned hotter than his face when she gave him a choice between obedience and her wand.

He had gotten used to a lot of things by the time he figured out what she wanted him for.

When he fought her he was fighting himself, fighting the little blue flame as well as her hands and her chains. For a while it was enough to hold him back entirely, but when her hands roamed his body it was too much: this was not worth living for. Hexes and beatings couldn't be worse than disgust and embarassment, and he thought perhaps that if his body hurt enough it wouldn't react to her hands, would start obeying him instead of her.

"Come here, boy," she said.

"Make me," he said.

One slim dark eyebrow formed a perfect arch.

 

11.  
The ring is the cruelest toy, cold, brass, clamped uncomfortably around his cock and balls. It results in stone-hard, painful erections that last through any trials, and his own need to come blots out both pride and shame. The first time she used it, he cursed her until his voice gave out. The second time, he vomited when she had gone. When she left the ring on him for hours, untouched, just to watch him squirm with his arms and legs tied, he wanted to rip out her throat.

"Who's a pretty boy?" she coos as she strokes his chest and stomach. "Who's a pretty boy, then? Yes," the ring stretches like rubber and snaps achingly tight in its place, "yes, good boy...what do good boys say?"

"Go to hell," he growls.

Her wand snaps down on his balls where they're pinched by the ring, and he sucks in cold air through his teeth. "Bad boy," she says. "What do good boys say?"

"P-p-piss off."

She grabs his half-stiff cock and squeezes, hard; he doesn't know whether to fuck her fist or recoil from her razored nails. "Very bad boy," she croons. "Very, very bad boy...we know what happens to bad little boys, don't we?"

She drags her nails from base to tip and it hurts, oh God, he's screaming a little because it hurts. He thrashes against his restraints.

"What do we say, little boy?"

"F-f-fuck you!"

"What's the magic word?"

Three slow, ragged breaths.

"What is the magic word, pretty boy?"

"...please."

 

3\.   
But she saved his life, and he can't ever forget that.

She took him from the guards and lifted him into the bathroom with her own two arms; he was too weak to move on his own, barely conscious. She placed him in a half-filled tub and cleaned his wounds, bandaged the ones she couldn't heal, washed away bruises and soils. She set his legs and bound his ribs and sealed the oozing blisters on his wrists. She changed the bathwater three times, banishing swirls of dirt and blood and pus, until it was clear and he was clean and as close to being healed as he could get.

He doesn't remember how many times he was kicked in the crotch after he was captured; the long hours in prison have blurred and smudged together. But he remembers that his genitals were still black and blue when she drained the last of the bathwater, that he'd pissed blood the last time he pissed at all. He was too exhausted to move when she stroked her fingers up his inner thigh, and anyway, after all that pain, any pleasure was so much _more_ that he didn't want to move, was afraid to make it stop.

She filled her palm with a gelatinous potion and began to wank him, slowly, more gently than he could remember being possible. Massaging his balls, stroking the shaft, rubbing her thumb under the receding foreskinit hurt, at first, but then it went warm and tingly, like she was wiping away the mottled marks, like she was wringing out the pain and leaving pleasure. He was too weak to thrust, his throat too ruined to moan, but he could shut his eyes and let his head tip back, let himself come, surrender.

He passed out when he did, and he wonders sometimes what her face looked like at that moment. Was she disgusted? Angry? Pleased? Triumphant? Or did she simply wipe her hand and walk away?

 

10.  
By now he knows what's coming every time; the opening may be different but the endgame never is. She is as inevitable as death, or gravity.

"Bath me," she says. He's not smooth or careful while he undresses her: he pinches and bumps, jostles and jerks, and he nearly pops a button from her robes as he pulls them away. She frowns at him but relaxes as she sinks into the water, warmed and scented just how she likes it. He soaps the washcloth and starts by washing her feet while she reclines.

"Good boy," she sighs as he workes the terrycloth over her skin.

The smell of gardenias from the water makes him want to vomit; instead he moves up to work on her calf, not looking at her face.

Eye closed, she strokes his hair with her wet hand, and the warm soapy water that trickles down his neck leaves him all the colder. "Good boy...pretty boy...who's a pretty boy now? Hmmm?"

He scrubs her knees now, one and the other. He won't give her the satisfaction of speech.

"Who's a good boy...a very good boy..."

He is rubbing the top of her thighs hard enough to make them pink, and there's nothing subtle about the way she's spreading them.

"You're such a good boy," she sighs like a benediction. "I love you...."

He punches her in the stomach.

The water absorbes just enough of his blow; the next he knows, he's being thrown into the wall hard enough to take his breath away. She surges up out of the tub, splattering scented water in sheets on the tiles, and pins him with her wand and flashing eyes.

"So," she whispers. "That's how you want it."

He snarls at her, scrambles to get his feet under him even as he stays crouched against the wall. "Go to fucking hell."

Her wand twitches and he's thrown backwards again, all the way into the bedroom. She stands over him, dripping and backlita shadow within a halo of glittering light.

"If that's how you want it," she says almost gleefully, "that can certainly be arranged."

 

15.  
He will kill her one dayhe dreams about it, nurses dead of night fantasies involving her warm, mutilated corpse. He will strangle her, he will break every bone in her body, he will cutt her throat and rip out her withered heart with his bare fist. Sometimes he even gets hard thinking about it, but on the rare nights he can bear to touch himself, it's his own blood that runs down his chin as he bits down on his hand to keep from screaming.

 

9.  
"Join me for dinner," she said one day, as if it weren't the most ludicrous thing he had heard all year.

"I'm not hungry," he said

She smiled sweetly. "I don't care."

The food looked delicious, but he knew better than to trust her: the dishes served themselves at every course, piling his plate with stew and fish and crisp green salad, and he ignored it all as best he was able. She ate slowly, luxuriously, taking her time and watching him carefully.

"You look uncomfortable," she said.

"I'm fine."

"You should eat."

"I'm not hungry."

She smiled and turned back to her plate as an ebony-handed fork filled with it roast beef. "The ickle boy is being contrary. Isn't that cute."

A red haze flashed across his eyes. "I'm going to kill you," he reminded her.

She laughed. "Of course you will."

He watched her swipe up gravy as thick and dark as motor oil. "You don't believe me."

"I don't believe you." Her smile was indulgent, patronizing. "You will die without my protection, and it will not be swift or clean."

"I don't care."

"Of course you don't."

This wasn't right. This wasn't her. He unfisted his hands and picked up the steak knife next to his plate. "I could slit my wrists right now, you know."

"Then do it." Her eyes glance up, still amused. "If you want to."

No. This wasn't how the game went. He knew that much by now. She wasn't supposed to care about what he wanted, she wasn't supposed to be so calm. "Or I could slit your throat," he added.

She smiled wider and more terribly than ever. "No," she said ever-so-gently. "No, you could not."

Some fragile thing inside him finally snapped.

He lunged out of his chair at her, knife coming down with more strength than he thought he had left. Her smile was still fixed when he dragged the blade acrossed it, and the blood that blossomed from the slash was the same color as her lipstick.

And then came Cruciatus, ripping into his bones. Again. And again. Between blasts he could glimpse her face, half-masked with blood, bent with ragehe writhed at the end of her wand, beyond all rational thought. He might have even blacked out a little. But when he swam back to himself on the cool waxy floor, he discovered he was laughing, laughing despited the lingering thrills of pain in his belly and spine.

He had gotten to her. He could crack her. Even if it killed him_._

"Bad boy," she hissed as she knelt over him. "Foolish boy...this is just the beginning of what I can do to you...."

She ran a hand down the side of his face, gentle and malevolent. After all that pain, anything else was almost like pleasure; he turned his head enough to catch her palm, catch that cold little pillow at the base of her thumb. Something less that fury sparkled in her eyes, and she slowly caressed his jaw, his neck, his chest and stomach with the same hand that had just held the wand.

Her hand came to the erection he hadn't realized he had, and that red mask was split by a smile.

"I see," she cooed as she fondled him; moving, just breathing hurt, but he squirmed beneath her anyway, because after pain the pleasure was so much _more, _and he couldn't believe the sensations singing through his nerves_._ "I see how it is now...what a naughty boy you've been."

He whimpered weakly when she stopped touching him, and yelped when she rolled him on his front with a flick of her wand. With tremendous effort he pushed himself up on hands and knees, with half a mind to crawl away, to find somewhere more private to pull himself off. Half a mind to get away before it was too late to act. Only half a mind to escape.

Her hand on his neck froze him as well as any spell. "Oh, no," she said, and his clothes melted away. "Naughty boys need to be punished."

He shivered at the throb in her voice, the husky glee that scared him almost as much as it turned him on. The next thing he saw was the silver serving fork, ebony handle shining, glittering tips still wet with fat and juices from the neglected meal. She held it in front of him just long enough for him to recognize it; then he felt it scratching down his spine, over his buttocks, along his perineum

"No," he rasped when he felt the cold silver against his arsehole. "No, please"

"Please, what?" she said languidly.

Her other hand left his neck to fondle his balls; he felt the fork again pressing against him. "Please don't," he whispered, but, oh, the way she was touching himhe was shaking from fear and trembling with need and he wasn't sure the two were any different anymore.

"Don't do what, pretty?"

"Don't hurt me."

"You don't really want that."She squeezed him, hard, as she tapped each tine of the fork in turn against his hole. He bucked backwards against his will, and gasped when the fork scratched him deep in the crease at the top of his thigh. "Tell the truth now, pretty."

"Please..." He took a deep breath, then another, but the words wouldn't come, not the ones he knew he should say. Only the ones he wanted to. "Please. Just do it."

She paused, then chuckled low, and the hand and the fork very briefly disappeared. Then he felt something thick and hard and heavy pushing inside him, and he could've cried with relief when he realized she was going to do this with the handle, not the tip.

"Good boy," she cooed as she fucked him with the fork. "Good boy...open up for me like a good boy, now."

He spread his legs for her. The fork went in deeper, and it felt so good it hurt.

"Good boy." She squeezed his cock again as she jiggled the fork inside him. "Are you sorry for what you've done?"

"Yes," he groaned.

"Are you going to be a good boy from now on?"

"Yes..."

"Do you want to come?"

The fork rubbed something in his arse that made his vision spark and blur. "Yes," he moaned, "yes, I'm sorry, please, I'll be good...please let me come, I'll be good now..."

"Promise?"

_"Yes!"_

She pushed him over onto his back abruptly; the fork was wedged inside him at a terrible angle, but then she plunged herself down on his cock, all hot and dripping and _oh_

 

13.  
He licks the come out of her pussy, and she banishes the ropes with a flick of her wand. He stays passive as she cleans the wounds she has made and she ruffles his hair affectionately before she goes.

 

2.  
The guards dumped him on a soft carpeted floor, and they held him down like he was in a fit state to try to attack. Somewhere above him, a tongue clicked, and through a muzzy grey fog he recognized her voice for the very first time.

"I hardly think he's that much of a threat, Walden."

"He bit one of my men," the lead guard replied. "You sure Greyback hasn't been at him?"

A tinkling laugh, like broken glass. "Oh, no, the puppy knows better than to chew on my toys."

"Bastard might be better off with the wolves," MacNair muttered, and out of the fog a foot nudged his aching ribs. "Good for nothing but target practice otherwise."

Ron felt cool hands touch his face, but his eyes couldn't focus: all he saw was a dark head with a blistering halo. "He's exactly what I want. Take him into the bathroom."

They lifted him, grumbling under their breath, and carried him the last yards into darkness. He could still hear the end of the conversation.

"Mrs. Lestrange, the boy's gone right round the twist. Myself, I wouldn't trust him without a chain around his neck."

That broken laugh again. "Oh, Walden," she said. "You of all people should know...with the proper handling, any animal can be trained."


End file.
